


To Serve

by Anonymous



Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games)
Genre: Blood As Lube, Knifeplay, M/M, Obedience, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25899325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He moans again as the blade shifts lower, threatening to cut him next along the bottom of his ribcage, and Kotal stops to ask, “What is it that you like about this, Erron?”The question makes him uncomfortable, namely because he doesn’t know how to answer it. His mind cooks up platitudes about how happy servitude makes him, how hebelongshere, doing this for him, and his pride bottles up the thought, refusing to bow in that way.“I don’t know.” He lies.But he does. It’s that no one else – no one in the entire universe – couldmakehim take these things like Kotal can. It’s that no one else is worth his submission.Drabbles and oneshots centered around submission, pain, and worship.
Relationships: Erron Black/Kotal Kahn
Kudos: 24
Collections: Anonymous





	To Serve

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! I'm totally new to the fandom and probably doing this wrong. Bless this mess.

Erron’s an adrenaline junkie, plain and simple.

He likes the way it feels to be out of options. He likes functioning in chaos and violence. He likes living on the edge, unsure of anything, risking it all just for the hell of it.

Mostly, he likes that he always comes out of those situations on top.

That’s why he doesn’t always understand this thing he has with Kotal Kahn – this thing where he is consistently outpaced and outmatched and confused. He comes back to it like an addiction, time after time, never the one in control.

It’s how he knows without fail, before things start, that this is a losing game.

He lays bound and on display across an altar, with Kotal in between his spread legs. Kotal’s blade digs so tightly against Erron’s throat that he’s afraid to move at all, and still he spreads his legs further, inviting, knowing that Kotal can see.

Kotal’s touch is like fire. It sends heat pooling in Erron’s center, burning him up. It makes his breath catch and his body want to shake.

“Please.” He breathes, and he feels the blade’s serrated edge glide against his skin with the motion. “Please, let me serve you.”

The concept of servitude is still a new one to him, one he initially entered under performative pretenses, but the heat rising in his face makes him wonder just how performative it truly is. Kotal is the only person that Erron’s ever bowed to. It came to exist effortlessly, like breathing.

Kotal’s blade is made of obsidian, and it cuts without effort, sharper than steel.

Erron trembles beneath him. He feels his heart beating hard in his chest, his breath coming in short and shallow, as Kotal presses it lower against his chest and finally draws blood.

The sting is immediate. Erron feels it as the blade sinks in ever so gently, pressing downwards and cutting his skin. He hears himself moan instead of scream.

He doesn’t understand that part, and he chalks it up to the adrenaline junkie in him. The pain is undeniable. It’s sharp and overt and cruel. Still, some part of him lights up under it, craving more and more.

He moans again as the blade shifts lower, threatening to cut him next along the bottom of his ribcage, and Kotal stops to ask, “What is it that you like about this, Erron?”

The question makes him uncomfortable, namely because he doesn’t know how to answer it. His mind cooks up platitudes about how happy servitude makes him, how he _belongs_ here, doing this for him, and his pride bottles up the thought, refusing to bow in that way.

“I don’t know.” He lies.

But he does. It’s that no one else – no one in the entire universe – could _make_ him take these things like Kotal can. It’s that no one else is worth his submission.

Kotal’s free hand splays out across Erron’s chest, his fingers smearing blood across his skin.

“Do you know what I think?” Kotal asks. “I think that you’ve always wanted someone to conquer you like this.”

Erron says nothing. He watches Kotal smear his blood around; he watches him soak his fingers in it, and then pull them back.

“Am I correct?” Kotal asks, and his hand – warm, wet, and blood-soaked – dips in between Erron’s legs. Two of his fingers line up with his hole and immediately push in.

“ _Yes_.” Erron moans, tipping his head back, feeling gratified.

He thinks that at this point he’d agree to almost anything. Pleasure is a great motivator, and he finds his pride quick to dissipate under it. The entire world blurs out in a way, losing focus until it’s just him and Kotal – just them and this fucked up, sacred thing they do.

It fills him with need. The only thing that keeps Erron from rocking his hips into Kotal’s touch is the blade pressing against his skin – a silent command to stay still, to behave. His pride refuses to let him fail it.

Kotal’s fingers press deep, stretching Erron out and filling him up, brushing against spots that send a jolt of pleasure up his spine. He can hear himself panting, and he wants to move. He wants to beg. He barely manages to resist both.

He looks at Kotal, in between his spread legs, past the blood smeared along his chest and dripping down his ribs. He watches him withdraw his fingers; he watches him free his cock and line it up with him.

Kotal’s cock is huge – thick and long and never easy to take, no matter how badly Erron wants it. Kotal _makes him_ take it, shoving the first few inches in, and Erron is torn between wanting to flinch away from the intrusion and wanting to grind his hips down into it.

“You were meant for this, Erron.” Kotal says. “You’re such a good, obedient concubine – I couldn’t imagine you belonging anywhere else.”

Erron feels like he’s earned the praise.

He is the best, after all – second only to one.


End file.
